


between the devil and the deep blue sea

by stonedlennon



Series: how we won the war [1]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1930s, 1939, Alternate Universe - World War II, Gender Roles, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Period Typical Attitudes, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9550478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: On the evening that war is declared, conscientious objector John Lennon meets naval officer Paul McCartney. September, 1939.





	

**Author's Note:**

> you all saw this coming. it appears i'm incapable of jokingly suggesting an AU prompt without squirreling away to write it myself. someone, please: stop me. this is a direct result of [this post](http://stonedlennon.tumblr.com/post/156664803857/a-1940s-au-in-which-raf-pilot-paul-mccartney-meets), although some things have since changed.
> 
> i intend this to be a continual WIP series, made up of various snapshots of their relationship from the start of the war to the end of it. i've no idea about how long or short it'll be - i quite like the idea of working on it whenever i want to - so be prepared for this to just sort of spread out and flounder and grow naturally. please note that there are several comments that sound anachronistic to us, but it _is_ 1939 and historical accuracy is very important to me. i'll also briefly mention that there's going to be very little Gay Panic in this fic, mainly because i'm more interested in exploring their notions of masculinity and sexual/romantic identity beyond the scope of worrying about ~being queer. all references should be era-appropriate, especially the music; i'm a huge swing fan. 
> 
> oh! and if you want to imagine what john looks like in this fic, may i suggest [this photo?](http://68.media.tumblr.com/fdb51d9bd2c472db3812ff231c653ced/tumblr_odr971Lu1s1tddvtfo1_500.jpg) hope you enjoy!

_I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received,_  
_and that consequently this country is at war with Germany._

 _-_ Neville Chamberlain, 3 September 1939.

* * *

 

The last thing John wanted to do on a Sunday evening was accompany his aunt Mimi to a dance. Her insistence upon a chaperone had, at first, been cordial and pleasant, but when John had refused to move from the settee in the sitting room, she had sized herself up to stare at him: pursed mouth, neatly set pin curls, a black lacquered handbag in the crook of her elbow, her gloves held by her bosom.

“There is no discussion, John Lennon,” she’d said, raising her eyebrows to illustrate the futility of his actions. “It is a fundraiser. I am on the committee. We are attending.”

Her steely expression had made any further excuses shrivel up on his tongue. And so they were here, in the large hall of Liverpool’s municipal building, surrounded by the plaster facades of last century, gazing up at the new electric chandelier the banking society had installed last summer.

The crowds were well dressed and nervous. Women flattened their hands over stiff skirts and peered towards the stage at the far end of the hall; men shed their evening jackets and talked shop with one another. Cigarette smoke hung in a silver haze, suffusing the warm air with perfume, cologne, and the tobacco that, it was already rumoured, would soon be rationed. There was nothing overtly well to do about the guests, although it was plain that several couples had dredged up their nicest clothes for the evening. When high heels would soon be replaced with flat, sensible shoes, and sharp hats for flat caps, the desire to dress up one last time infused the crowd with a sense of urgency.

John had dressed up only at Mimi’s insistence. His usual uniform of slouched trousers, suspenders, scuffed two-tones, and loose linen shirts, had been replaced this evening with a tight, double-breasted suit that made him look fifteen years older. It had been his uncle George’s. God knew why Mimi had kept something so ugly.

Smoking and feeling miserable for himself, John let Mimi pull him through the crowd. She greeted several women, all of whom were hovering anxiously by their sombre husbands. “So good to see you, dear,” they said over and over, kissing cheeks; and then, to John, “My, what a handsome young man you’ve become!”

Mimi elbowed him in the ribs. “Thanks,” he replied sullenly.

It was only eight o’clock and already the room was packed. No doubt Chamberlain’s announcement that morning had set off a chain reaction through Liverpool’s middle class: socialize while you still can! War does not wait for anyone!

John idly made a mental note of the phrase; it could work for Tuesday’s supplement. Just as he was contemplating making a beeline for the bar back in the foyer, he spotted a familiar shock of blonde hair.

Before he could slip away, Mimi’s hand wrapped around his elbow. “John,” she smiled through gritted teeth. “Don’t run off, please. The band’s about to play.”

“I’m here, aren’t I,” John reminded her. “Didn’t promise I’d hang on all ruddy evening.”

Scowling at him, Mimi said tightly, “Language, _please_. Now is not the time.” She must have glimpsed Pete over his shoulder, for her mouth twisted in that funny way when she had bad news. John frowned at her in confusion.

“Oh, fine,” she muttered and glanced at him. “But please be back to escort me.”

John raised his eyebrows at her shift in mood. Sticking his cigarette in his mouth, he turned away to elbow through the crowd. Some of the guests looked at him in distaste, no doubt wondering about whose young man this was, with those bad manners.

When he neared Pete’s gaggle, John felt his spirits rise. “And who are you, this evening,” he said into Pete’s ear.

Turning around, Pete’s eyes lit up as he grinned. “Look what the cat dragged along,” he replied admiringly. “Thought you’d be printing flyers or typing madly for tomorrow mornin’.”

Just as John opened his mouth to retort, he noticed what Pete was wearing. The uncomfortable silence made Pete nervously adjust the gold pin on his lapel. It was so brazen, there was any wonder John hadn’t seen it from fifty yards.

“It’s been nine hours,” John said with deadly calm. “What the hell happened our _pact,_ Shotton?”

Pete’s fair skin visibly coloured. He cleared his throat when John swore. “Ah, come on, John,” he muttered, “it’s me Mum, alright? Y’know I’m the oldest. Have t’set an example, and all that.”

The pin, an anchor entwined with rope, was set with the one acronym John hated more in the world than his own bleeding name. “So you’re throwin’ everything away t’run off t’sea, is that it.” Narrowing his eyes, John exhaled a stream of smoke right into Pete’s face. Coughing, Pete frowned as John added, “Traitor.”

“How can y’say that?” Pete said angrily, his voice pitched low to avoid disturbing the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder before grabbing John’s arm and pulling them a few steps away. John immediately wrenched his arm free. Betrayal, hot and quick, surged up his throat.

“Very easily. You gullible bastard. Think that’s what awaits ye, on the nice blue yonder?” John set his jaw against the intensity of his feelings. “Heroism? A pretty little sodding _medal_?”

“You’ve read the papers, John,” Pete hissed. “Hell, you _work_ for the papers. Ye know what they’ve been sayin’. For _months_ now. We’ve not got the luxury of standin’ aside.”

“Sod the bloody papers,” John stormed. People around them rippled in surprise, shooting him mingled looks of anger and discomfort at his raised voice.

“Don’t be so loud,” Pete urged, and John reeled back, feeling his fury whip across his face. “Don’t you tell me what to do, ye _berk_.”

As if summoned by the wayward nephew, Mimi appeared instantly by his side. She gripped John’s upper arm. He couldn’t tear himself away from the sight of that – that _pin._ “John,” she started in an undertone, “the band is about to begin. We should let Mister Shotton find his seat.”

Pete jerked away from John’s burning glare. “It’s quite alright, Mrs Smith. I apologize for taking him away from you.”

“Don’t answer for me,” John warned. Pete inhaled sharply and pressed his lips together. Sensing the likelihood of this altercation being settled with fists, Mimi’s hand tightened on John’s bicep.

“Come away, John, please. Have a good evening, Mister Shotton.”

“Yes,” Pete replied after a pause. “You too. That is, have a good evening. Goodbye, John.” He turned away, his pinks cheek with embarrassment and frustration.

Mimi pulled him back into the crowd.

John felt as if he were burning up. A sharp pain against his right knuckles made him drop his forgotten cigarette to the floor; it had left a dark blister on his middle finger. _Unbelievable,_ he thought in rapturous fury, _unbelievable._ He’d known Pete since they were lads running ‘round Woolton together, throwing stones at cows and hitching rides on the back of the milk cart. They had _sworn,_ as blood brothers, that if they were ever to run away, it would be to the sea. And later, when John had discovered pacifism, he’d bullied Pete into renewing their vow to exclude the navy from their futures entirely.

Now that he thought about it, Pete had been somewhat reluctant to be so firm.

_But what if…_

_There are no what ifs,_ John had told him bossily, _war is wrong. If you’re properly my brother, you’ll agree with me._

In hindsight, he should have known that Pete’s lust for bravery would get him into trouble. Beneath the cruel, boyish veneer he had perfected in John’s corruptible company lurked a young man upon whose shoulders the livelihood of his family rested. Hadn’t his father been in heavy artillery in the last war? _Stupid, stupid,_ John thought about himself, helping Mimi into a row of seats. _Stupid Lennon, putting all his eggs in one basket._

He felt changeable and taciturn. As everyone settled into their chairs, all of them arranged to face the stage, John felt the mounting excitement stifling as hot water; he felt as if he were drowning. The discordant sounds of the band tuning up drifted past the heavy red curtain. Conversation burbled about him. John slumped in his seat, gazing glassy-eyed at the bald patch of the man in front. Mimi elbowed him to sit up; he crossed his legs in defiance.

That was it, then. No more Lotton and Shennon. He could practically picture his youth board the train that slid from the station. _Guns and blood,_ John thought in sudden panic, _that’s what the future is now._

“Mimi,” John blurted. “Mimi, I have to go.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ll do no such thing.” Laughing humourlessly, she glanced around at them. “You’ll stay here,” she told him, “and be my chaperone. I’ll not stand for your childish whims tonight, John. Of _all_ nights.”

 _It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against,_ Chamberlain had solemnly pronounced, _and against them I am certain that the right will prevail._

John felt nauseous. “I have to go.”

“ _Really,_ ” Mimi said, just as the overhead lights dimmed once. The crowd rustled in anticipation, conversation lowering a notch. “You will stay,” she continued, still managing to convey a sense of intense disappointment despite her low tone. “I don’t care what you get up to afterwards, but in the meantime, you must stay here.”

John mechanically lit a cigarette. When the room went dark, his heartbeat sounded loud in his ears. He couldn’t go to war. Could they force him? There was no Kitchener’s Mob this time ‘round, but who was to say some bright spark in Parliament wouldn’t be inspired to get young British blood pumping with patriot fervour?

And to think he had spent the afternoon in a languor, laughing at the funerary reports on the wireless. _As long as a war is wicked, it will always have its fascination,_ he had scrawled in a notebook, lolling on the spare bed at Mendips, _and when it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular._ How bizarre to conceive that hours before he’d been suffused in a blasé dream.

 _I could go to war,_ John realized numbly.

The curtain drew back to a collection of applause. The figures onstage were too far away to see; hoping to distract himself, John extricated his round glasses and put them on, thankful he could hide his face in the darkness. His eagerness drew a sideways glance from Mimi.

Stage lights illuminated the gold instruments held by the musicians, all of which were in naval garb. John felt his lip curl. The universe truly had a remarkable sense of humour. He should have known that Liverpool would take little time to rally behind its history.

The naval officers looked rather young, as if they were new recruits. A conductor, dressed with more aplomb than his charges, lifted his hands. There was a tense moment of pause. Then he twirled his wrists up, and the band began to play. John preferred the black American jazz than the watered down sort, but Goodman was a reasonable compromise. The opening shout of the trumpets segued into an oboe; the tune was jaunty, a verbal shrug, the piano bouncing into the sixth bar with the double bass thrumming in the background. With the music swelling over the crowd to puncture so many thought bubbles of fear and nerves, John let himself dissolve into the heady bloom of swing.

He smoked continuously throughout the performance. John ignored the irritated darting looks he received each time he snapped his lighter, the spark catching brightly in the gloom. Between the second and third songs the conductor introduced them as the resident band of the University Naval Division. That explained why most of the lads looked to be little more than boys.

John drifted away. He found himself watching the pianist. The bloke’s dark-fringed eyes barely shifted away from the play of his hands over the keys, his fingers tripping effortlessly from one song to another. John barely realized he was applauding after each song until Mimi elbowed him, raising her eyebrows as if to say, _See, you are enjoying yourself._

Shooting her a grimace, John plucked the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled toward the ceiling. The pianist onstage stood up and retrieved a trumpet. John watched him join the brass section. After a beat, the band melted into a Dorsey arrangement, the trombone sounding sweet and melancholy, each bar falling just short of smoothing John’s frazzled nerves. He tapped his foot impatiently and bit his lip. The trumpet player played a mournful solo, his slight figure emphasized by the close cut of his uniform.

When the final quavering note sailed out across the hushed crowd, they burst into applause. Looking around, John was astounded to see some people dabbing at their eyes.

“We’ve only been at war five minutes,” John muttered into Mimi’s ear. She pursed her lips against a smile. John pretended to be shocked. “Do behave, now, we are at _war.”_

“Stop it, John,” she said fondly. Onstage, the band took another round of bows. They applauded dutifully. When the curtains swung shut and the lights went up, John muttered, “Finally. Let’s head.”

“Oh no.” Mimi raised her eyebrows as John stared at her. “I don’t have to remind you that I am on the –”

“Committee. Yeah, yeah.” John put his cigarette stub into his pack and immediately pulled out a new one. At Mimi’s disapproving look, he said, “Y’don’t expect me t’go through without a damn smoke, do you.”

“Please stop being so vulgar,” Mimi murmured over her shoulder, then upon noticing a woman in a dove grey suit, said, “Oh, Joan. I hoped to see you here!”

John lurked awkwardly behind Mimi as she dissolved into conversation. Most of the crowd were filing out of their rows of seats and were returning to the other end of the hall to mingle or dance. He noticed several of the men ducking out into the foyer, no doubt to make use of the bar ahead of the evening. Behind him, onstage, another band started a two-step with wonky enthusiasm.

Deciding that the likelihood of Mimi expiring without him was low, John slipped out the other end of their row of seats. With one hand in his pocket and the other on his cigarette, he wandered out into the crowd. Conversations were somewhat lighter than before; everyone appeared to conclude that worrying about the war now, at a dance, on a Sunday evening, was simply bad manners. Women laughed and gossiped; men loitered and made noises about the War Effort.

“The cabinet’s facing a reshuffle,” a portly fella was saying, as his conversational partner huffed on a cigarette and murmured, “Doesn’t look good for Chamberlain, does it?”

A hand caught John’s sleeve. He turned to find Pete, whose expression was sheepish. “Look,” he started, “about before…”

“Don’t try it,” John snapped. Pulling himself free for the second time that evening, John’s gaze slid away as took a deep drag. Pete was the last person he wanted to see; he could already feel his ire rise once more to the surface. That stupid gold pin seemed to gleam in the corner of John’s eye.

“Surely ye can understand where m’comin’ from.” Pete tried to catch John’s attention. “Lennon? Are you ignorin’ me?”

The crowd parted to reveal a group of men. Unremarkable save for one, whose austere suit looked to cost three times more than his companions. His wavy blonde hair was set high from his forehead, which even from this distance had a premature wrinkle. A rather wide mouth broke into a laugh at someone’s comment, his snub nose disarmingly boyish in comparison to his close-set, calculating gaze; a gaze that, when it swept casually over the crowd, snagged on John.

“Look, m’sorry,” Pete was saying, “but it’s the right thing t’do. Fighting for our country. Surely ye can see I’m right, mate.”

A trail of round, white hats snaked through the commotion. John watched the naval officers from the band descend into their audience, smiling politely as people tried to shake their hands or give compliments. He idly brought his cigarette to his mouth and wondered about finding that pianist with the dark eyes…

“I don’t ruddy believe this. Fine, ignore me all ye want, but I’m –”

“I know what you’re doin’.” John looked at Pete. “You’re givin’ in. You’re playin’ the game. Bloody well fine, then, but ye won’t change me mind.”

Pete’s face went a mottled shade of red. “I might not change it, but a court will.” Something must have crossed John’s face, because Pete rocked back on his heels, looking coldly smug. “Some journalist you are.”

“Cartoonist,” John corrected automatically. “What court?”

“Don’t ye even read your own paper?” When John shrugged lazily, Pete rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake. There are gonna be tribunals. Y’know, t’make sure you’re not fakin’.”

“I’m no faker,” John started heatedly.

“You knob, did I say that?” Ignoring the passing glare of a woman, Pete set his jaw. “It’s t’sort the wheat from the chaff. You know. The Krauts are puttin’ out soldiers on a production line.”

Now that was an idea for a cartoon. “They can stick me full of hot pokers,” John declared. “M’not givin’ in.”

Pete raised his eyes to the ceiling. He noticed someone over John’s shoulder and raised a hand in greeting. “That’s me sister. Take care, alright, John?” His expression grew uncharacteristically serious. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

John gave him a flat look. “I’ll have to make up for both of us, won’t I. Now that you’ve gone all Ahab on me.”

“Who? Anyway, I should go.” He clapped John’s shoulder and they shared a look. “Bye, then.”

“Bye,” John replied dully. It was like stepping outside himself to watch Pete disappear into the crowd. Here be Lennon, adrift.

He was contemplating running screaming from the hall when a figure started towards him. It was the man in the la-di-da suit, all cautious excitement and steady hands. He held a cigarette aloft as if this were a cocktail party and not a sad excuse for a fundraiser – no offence to Mimi. When he stopped in front of John, he realized he still had his stupid specs on. John pulled them off abruptly.

“Good evening.” The stranger’s voice was as plummy as they came: the epitome of the British upper-crust. Should he be conscripted, there was no chance in hell he was going anywhere other than the Officers unit. A secretive smile flickered across his full mouth. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Probably not,” John drawled. He took a long drag on his cigarette, smoke curling contemplatively from his mouth as they watched each other.

Passing his cigarette to his left hand, the stranger extended his right for John to shake. “Brian Epstein.”

Pulling his village idiot impression would be a sound way to get out of this; the bloke looked like he’d drop a hundred quid note as he scarpered away in fear. But there was something interesting and unexpected about meeting a strange man at a fundraiser, and so John shook hands and said, “John Lennon. Alright.”

“Yes,” Epstein said, clearly uncertain as to how to respond. He gestured towards the stage. The band were trailing through James’ _I Want to Be Happy._ “The U.N.D. performance was rather enjoyable, didn’t you think?”

“Not swingy enough,” John deadpanned.

“That’s an interesting way to describe the sound of a song.” Epstein looked as if he were about to laugh, but stopped himself just in time. He quickly licked his lower lip. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around much before. Are you a musical man?”

“No more than anyone else.” Exhaling some smoke over his shoulder, John gazed myopically out over the crowd. Everyone had been reduced the blobs; there was no chance of finding that pianist bloke now. Unexpectedly, he felt somewhat irritated at the realisation.

“How interesting. I’m in theatre, myself,” Epstein said politely. “I don’t suppose you know it, the Playhouse?”

John blinked at him. “Oh, yeah. What y’do, then?”

“I’m a director.” He swelled proudly. “Newly minted, in fact. As it happens, you’re the first person I’ve told tonight.”

“I’m honoured,” John replied, and Epstein said, “I would like it if you were.”

Despite his initial interest, John nevertheless found himself drifting away. He kept noticing men appear with glasses of sherry or whiskey; some of the women had wine. A good portion of the crowd had started to dance in pairs in the middle clearing of the hall. The music swelled clumsily through a rendition of _You Made Me Love You._ John was contemplating how best to get his mitts on a drink himself when Epstein asked, “And what is it that you do, Mister Lennon?”

Custom would have him say, _Mister Lennon’s me father, call me John,_ but something told him to hold off. “I’m political commentator,” John answered around his cigarette.

“I see. A columnist, or a journalist?”

“Cartoonist. D’ye mind if I go get a drink?”

Epstein blinked at him in surprise. “Oh. No, by all means.” They turned to look at the far double doors, which looked out into the bubbling foyer. Evidently the guests had decided to trip their way from peacetime into war with a good glass of _some_ thing in hand. John doubted anyone would lose decorum, although he wished they could leave their faces at the door just this once.

Feeling uncomfortably polite, John mumbled, “Want somethin’?”

To his horror, Epstein put his hand in his inside pocket.

“I can buy ye a drink,” John pointed out irritably.

Epstein coloured. “I wouldn’t want to presume –”

The crowd pressed in on all sides. Sweat prickled in the dip of his lower back. Muttering something, John jerked away and started off towards the foyer. His cigarette burned between clenched teeth, smoke curling up to tangle in his fluffy auburn hair. The prospect of a cool beer was intensely comforting, even if Mimi would give him hell for drinking anything so base at an event like this.

The moment he stepped through the double doors and into the foyer, the temperature noticeably dropped. Someone had propped one of the hall doors open, allowing a chill September breeze to drift through the fug of smoke and perfume. Conversation burned all around him as he swam through the crowd. Men loitered in groups, clearly taking the foyer to be a place of refuge from the dancing that had kicked up in earnest; _Don’t Be That Way_ played cheerily in the background. “Move it,” John grumbled, elbowing his way towards the bar; then, relenting, “Ex _cuse_ me, mate.”

What was otherwise a coat room had been turned into a makeshift refreshments counter. The barman caught John’s eyes and quirked his eyebrows. Over the simmering din, John mimed two glasses. The bloke gestured in understanding and disappeared to make do.

John sagged against the counter. A tight knot of anxiety had formed in his throat. He stared at a bowl of peanuts and tried to think of something, anything, than the oily black mass in the back of his mind. Blood, guts, glory. _Oh, Britannica!_ The half-imagined sound of trumpets sounded triumphantly over a ruined battlefield.

Terror descended like a wave. “Oh, Christ.” He buried his face in a hand.

“That’s a sentiment I can share.”

John turned his head in the cradle of his palm, one eye hidden by a shelf of his loose fringe. A pair of steady dark eyes regarded him coolly. The bloke looked too young to even be out after curfew. When he spoke, his voice was deep and slow but fringed with something uncertain. “Reckon they’ll be calling for recruits soon?”

John had never felt particularly connected with anyone in his generation; rather, he felt as if he ran on a parallel line, intersecting only in the interests of school or work or misery. But with the dark shadow over Europe spreading outwards, it was like they were tarred with the same brush. They were the young men born from a legion of war heroes – how ironic that they should pick up the mantle their parents left behind.

Dropping his arm onto the counter, John stared at the bloke. “S’only been nine hours,” he echoed, thinking spitefully, _Like that makes a difference._

“That won’t stop ‘em,” he commented. “Heard about the War Cabinet? We’ll be lucky if they’re not makin’ a call by the end of the week.”

“Yeah,” John said, feeling sick. “Lucky.”

“Here you are.” The barman put two glasses of whiskey and soda in front of him. John fumbled with some coins, muttered thanks, and made to go back into the hall. He shared a look with the bloke, whose thick brows were drawn together in thought.

“Good luck,” John tried.

“Yeah.” The little bloke cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

Something dark clung to each step he made. As John waded back through the crowd, whose energy had spiked from polite company to nervous excitement, he felt the lump in his throat swell. Pete had seemed so sadly casual about the whole thing, acting as if they didn’t have a choice _._ Didn’t they? Everyone had a choice. They could _choose_ not to be murderers; they could abstain from perpetuating a system that thrived on fear mongering and violence. Never mind that John’s own knuckles had split outside countless pubs, on endless nights, tendons gleaming wetly beneath orange streetlamps.

There could be no war without soldiers. But John, like every young man in this hall, had been weaned on one absolute truth: to be a man, one must fight. Duty, honour, sacrifice. The words of an old poem drifted through his head. _Have you forgotten yet?_

 _Yes,_ John thought. _That’s why we’re here again._

He peered short-sightedly through the crowd. The soft grey of Epstein’s suit stood out in a sea of brown and green tweed. John wordlessly appeared at his side and held out a glass.

“Oh, thank you, Mister Lennon.” Epstein shot him a shy smile. When he took his drink, John shifted his fingers away at the last moment to avoid skin contact.

John took a slug of whiskey. The alcohol immediately hit the lump in his throat, making him feel as if he were about to be sick. He swallowed thickly and tried to steady himself.

Epstein stirred into action. “Forgive me. I don’t think you’ve met.” He gestured to a bloke John hadn’t noticed before. “John, this is Paul McCartney. He’s a naval officer.”

 _Bloody hell,_ he thought, realization dawning on him. McCartney smiled when their eyes met. He was slightly taller than John, broad where John was gangly, with a sharp waist that was accentuated by the navy high-waisted trousers of a sailor’s uniform. Black hair, regulation neat, was slicked back beneath a white hat, beneath which large, coy eyes glittered with interest. He stood with his hands behind his back, although as John stared at him, he held out one hand for them to shake.

“Hullo,” McCartney said, sounding amused. “Don’t reckon I’ve seen you before.”

“You’d remember if ye had,” John replied instantly. They shook hands; McCartney’s grip was dry and firm, his fingers as slender as they were tripping on piano keys. John impulsively pulled out his glasses and slipped them on.

McCartney was even more arresting in focus.

“Is that so?” McCartney arched one thin eyebrow. A playful smile warmed his mouth, which was full and pink, presumably from playing the trumpet. Vague, disjointed images flitted through John’s mind at the thought. “Can’t say the same.”

John laughed abruptly, torn between feeling offended and further stoking the curiosity that bubbled in his veins. “That’s some mouth you’ve got,” he observed. “Thought they did away with all that in the navy?”

“No, that’s the army,” McCartney quipped smoothly. “In the navy they actively encourage banter. S’just a boy’s club, when ye get down to it.”

John smirked. “In more ways than one, I’d wager.”

As McCartney bit his bottom lip, Epstein said, “Right. Well.” He cleared his throat and smiled at McCartney. “I meant to say: you played very well, Paul. Your solo work has improved tremendously.”

McCartney tugged his eyes from John. “Oh, ta. I had to fight tooth and nail with Ivan t’get the part, y’know.”

“But no contender fer you, I’m guessing.”

McCartney blinked coyly at John. “Is that your professional opinion talking?”

“In a matter of speaking.”

“Manner,” Epstein corrected.

“No.” John stared at McCartney. “Matter.”

To John’s intense pleasure, the implication made McCartney’s cheeks flush. John smirked again and took a sip of his drink.

Epstein evidently didn’t want to dwell on whatever peculiar thing was transpiring between them. He held his cigarette in front of him in a slightly affectedly masculine way, as if he were self-conscious. When John at last looked away from McCartney, it was with a thrill that he felt the weight of his gaze remain on his profile.

“Tell me, Paul,” Epstein started politely, “when will you receive word of your commission? I take it you’ll not be put on the switchboard, what with your graduation results.”

John glanced at them curiously. As McCartney opened his mouth to reply, John interrupted, “Sorry, how’d you two know each other, then?”

“Oh.” Epstein shared a smile with McCartney. “Paul used to be involved with the theatre.”

“He’s bein’ polite,” McCartney said. He shrugged modestly when John focused on him. “I really just used to hang around the stage door.”

“Loitering, y’mean?”

McCartney grinned, and John’s pulse thumped loudly in response. “Ye could call it that. Cadging a fag and hopin’ someone’d let me into the wings.”

“Until you started running errands for me,” Epstein elaborated with a supportive smile. “Which you were very good at.”

 _I’ll bet._ John shot Epstein an irritated look.

“Yeah, well.” McCartney started patting his pockets for a cigarette. Pre-empting Epstein, who went, “Oh, here,” and went to pull out a silver cigarette case, John extricated his crumpled paper pack of smokes. He tapped one out and, as McCartney raised an eyebrow, he lit it with the end of his own cig. Their eyes met through the silver cloud of smoke. John puffed once, igniting the cigarette, and handed it over. This time he let their fingers press together questioningly; McCartney’s breath hitched.

“Thanks,” he said after a tight pause.

John’s gaze lingered. “Don’t mention it.”

McCartney abruptly turned his attention back to Epstein. He flicked the end of his cigarette despite no ash having gathered. “To answer your question, I’m not sure yet. I’ll go wherever they send me. Don’t really have a choice in the matter.”

“That’s not true,” John said. “You ‘ave a choice. We all ‘ave a choice.”

“Not if you’re on track to be a sub-lieutenant,” Epstein deferred.

“I go wherever they want me,” McCartney repeated. He licked his bottom lip quickly and raised his cigarette to take a short drag. “What about you, then, Mister Lennon? Land, air, or sea?” There was a shadow of challenge in his tone.

“Mist, hopefully. Heard there’s not much happenin’ in that atmosphere.”

McCartney rolled his eyes and tried to stop himself from smiling. Epstein frowned. “Surely you’ll sign up? I thought all young men wanted to go to war.”

“Where’re you goin’ then?” John snapped. His cigarette smouldered low between his knuckles. “One stop to the Officer’s mess?”

The blatant admission of class made Epstein’s lips thin. John half wanted to string it along further, _Oh, sorry, I forgot we never talk about anythin’ in this bloody country,_ but he only snorted and looked away.

“I have a post in the War Office,” Epstein admitted after a beat. Evidently, he’d made the decision to let John’s faux pas slide by. “Clerical, but I’ll make myself useful there.”

John couldn’t hold his tongue. “Aye, easy t’call the shots when you’re not in the firing line.”

Epstein stared at him. “I _say_.”

“So,” McCartney started, exhaling a stream of smoke over one shoulder. His gaze was cool as he regarded John. “I s’pose all that means you’re not thinking of serving.”

The feeling of being in the spotlight made John shift his weight uncomfortably. He lapsed into a sullen silence and busied himself with his cigarette. It was almost imperceptible, but he noticed the way Epstein subtly rocked back on his heels, and how McCartney’s hazel eyes paused thoughtfully on him before moving away. When their attention diverted, John took an overlarge gulp of whiskey. His tongue soured with the taste.

John tuned out as Epstein and McCartney began another conversation, McCartney’s singsong cadence mingling with Epstein’s plummy vowels. The crowd seemed to have swelled in number: almost everyone held a glass of alcohol, and many were already pink-cheeked from smoking, dancing, and drinking. Onstage the band continued to warble through a Shaw number, the oboe swaying hypnotically through John’s system.

He focused on the large banner strung over the stage. TO OUR BOYS – THE U.N.D. _Christ,_ he thought in renewed irritation. No wonder Epstein had reacted so intensely; McCartney was practically a belle of the ball.

John Lennon did not do self-pity. He did pithy, perfunctory, and pissed off. But as McCartney laughed at something Epstein said, John felt a stab of envy.

Mimi would rescue him. John scanned the faceless blobs, searching for that strikingly tall figure. He smoked automatically as he did so. When at last he spied Mimi in conversation with a man in naval uniform, relief unfurled within him.

John left without excusing himself. Mimi noticed his approach and smiled warmly; she’d clearly forgiven his earlier bad behaviour. After a polite goodbye to the conductor, she allowed him to take her arm and steer her through the crowd.

“John,” she objected, still in good spirits, “whatever’s the matter?” Then, more sharply, “Have you been drinking?”

“So what if I have,” John growled. His cigarette burned his knuckles; he dropped it with a hissed, “Bugger!” Before Mimi could say anything, he shot her a look. “Just _don’t_ , Mimi.”

“ _What_ a mood you’re in,” Mimi commented. They wove through the crowd. “You’re fortunate I’ve spoken to everyone I needed to. You need to get to bed and sleep off your temper.”

John stopped suddenly and whipped around to face her. “I’m not a child, Mimi,” he said, half-strangled with fury. “Ye don’t have t’hover over me anymore. I’m a man.”

Mimi laughed. “You’re no man, John Lennon. A man does not act the way you do.”

Terror immobilized him. Then, with timing that was excruciatingly comic, a familiar voice said from behind him, “Are y’leaving?”

John wrenched himself from Mimi’s hard expression. McCartney smiled at him; it took John a moment to recognize that the action was slightly nervous, as if he half-expected John to give him a tongue lashing.

“I hope you’re not,” McCartney continued. His cheeks were a little pink. “Um. Leaving, I mean.”

“Maybe I am,” John snapped, as Mimi said, “Well we are now, apparently.”

Mimi silenced John with a quelling look. She turned a smile on McCartney and waited for him to hold out a hand for her to shake, which he did almost immediately. “Mrs Smith. How do you do?”

“Paul McCartney.” Hazel eyes skipped between John and Mimi. “I’m very well, thank you.”

“You played beautifully. Such talent can only be the result of strict tutelage.”

John irritably lit himself another cigarette. Trust Mimi to instantly pick up on the careful way McCartney spoke, as if the lower classes were incapable of natural gifts like music.

McCartney smiled tightly. “That’s very kind of ye t’say. I practice a lot, that’s true.”

“More like eat, sleep, breathe.” They both looked at John curiously. John gestured shortly with his cigarette. “There’re callouses on your hands.”

“Oh.” McCartney raised his eyebrows down at his fingers. “I’d not really noticed.”

“No,” Mimi said wryly, glancing at John. “Nor would anyone else.”

There was an expectant pause, which John ignored in favour of gazing into the middle distance and smoking. When McCartney spoke, he sounded amused. “I should get back to it. Y’know how it is. Really nice t’meet ye, Mrs Smith.”

As Mimi made demure noises, John shyly met McCartney’s eyes. They watched each other for a loaded moment. McCartney’s throat visibly bobbed. Then, just as Mimi took John’s arm again, he blurted, “Brian’s having a gathering next week.”

John roused himself to say, “Bully for him,” and Mimi pursed her lips at him.

“It’ll be small,” McCartney continued. “Mainly friends of his from the theatre. They’re always fairly decent, quite fun, really. Birds of a feather, y’know.”

There was an undercurrent to his tone that made John focus on him with renewed interest. “Do I?”

McCartney licked his bottom lip quickly. “Um. Maybe.” The longer they held eye contact, the darker his eyes grew. John’s skin ran hot. Mimi felt very conspicuous by his side.

He mechanically took a long drag from his cigarette. “Maybe,” he echoed.

“Wednesday evening. Falkner street, in the city. Has a bright red door.” McCartney glanced suddenly over his shoulder. When he looked back at John, something urgent flickered across his fine features. A slow, teasing smile warmed his full mouth.

“See ye then,” Paul said lightly.

John plucked his cigarette from his lips. “I didn’t say yes,” he tried.

“That’s true,” Paul agreed. His smile grew into a grin. “Didn’t say no, either. Goodnight.” And with a final goodbye to Mimi, he turned to disappear into the crowd.

John watched until he faded from sight. Mimi made a bemused noise. “What a forward young man,” she murmured. “You’re not thinking of going, John. _Theatre_ friends. I mean, really.”

“No,” John quipped, “I’ll be practicin’ stabbing Krauts with me bayonet.”

As Mimi rolled her eyes and began to lead them towards the double doors, John found himself searching for that slight figure, that pristine uniform, those playful eyes. Of course, those things didn’t excuse what Paul McCartney was and what he would be brainwashed to do. But if there was something that John knew of his own tangled existence it was this: intrigue was his siren call. And Paul was certainly very bloody intriguing.

**Author's Note:**

> please find me @stonedlennon on tumblr. and please do comment, kudos, and so forth - let me know what you think!


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